As the man who commanded the colonial forces, as well as, it transpired, the backing of Berlin and Rome, he emerged as the most potent voice in the Nationalist cause and he came to prominence with the Republic in chaos, struggling in the north-west provinces, bogged down in Aragon, with an ineffectual navy lacking in officers so that no blockade could be enforced, and the capital city incapable of defending itself from a determined thrust.
His Army of Africa columns swung up from Seville to attack the old fortress town of Badajoz, taken, but at a high cost in experienced troops. For all the losses of trained men, that capture linked the two halves of the Nationalist forces and cut the Republicans off from their confreres in the west. It also gave Franco the Portuguese border, over which the Nationalists were able to receive support from the openly fascist dictator, Antonio Salazar.
Following the Badajoz assault Franco should have headed straight for Madrid, it was there for the taking, but instead he turned aside to lift a siege of the huge barracks and magazine known as the Alcazar, in the strategic as well as emotionally vital city of Toledo, more to cement his position than for any real strategic gain, thus allowing time for the defences of the capital to be strengthened.
Throughout August and into September other important centres fell to bloody reprisals, the Nationalists using every weapon in the modern armoury, including naval bombardment and massed artillery, to take the cities. But the key to their rapid success lay in what came to them from abroad. German bombers to terrorise civilians and pulverise troop concentrations, and fighters to strafe their fleeing enemies.
For the first time, the names of German pilots crept into news reports, the fiction that the planes supplied by Hitler were being flown by Spaniards the same kind of lie as that propagated by Manfred Drecker; the war in Spain was moving from a purely native fight between two political ideologies to become a cockpit for an international war by proxy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The arrival of the main body of militias outside Saragossa, nearly three thousand strong and made up of members of the POUM as well as the CNT-FAI, had severely diminished the position of Juan Luis Laporta, who now found himself relegated to being one of a number of leaders instead of in sole control of his men. It did not, however, improve matters in the military sphere.
None of the new arrivals seemed capable of the kind of agreement that would enhance the needs of the Republic, which demanded a rapid advance into the Nationalist heartlands in order to force them to divert their efforts from elsewhere. Comfortably headquartered in an abandoned monastery by the River Ebro, the military hierarchy seemed like the Cafe de Tranquilidad all over again: endless argument which led to bad compromises, ineffective tactics, and futile mass assaults which burdened the militias with serious casualties.
As before, the need to dig in was scoffed at, which led to an even greater loss when the enemy counter-attacked, the only sector not to suffer the one held by the fully entrenched Olympians, simply because, wisely, the Nationalists, having carried out a thorough recce, came nowhere near it. Yet that secure position had to be abandoned due to the retreat of the main body.
It was obvious that on the Saragossa Front things were going nowhere, so Cal Jardine was not sorry when it came to his attention that time had run out for many of those he led. The young athletes had come to Spain for a period of three weeks — two to train and one to compete — and were now approaching a third month.
As aware as the men who led them of the faults of the Republican leadership, they now found a pressing need to get home to jobs and, in one or two cases, families of their own. Those who elected to stay, twelve in number, would mostly only be returning to the dole queue, but it was obvious that, numerically, they were too small to be useful.
The news that the Republic was forming International Brigades from foreign volunteers provided a solution for them, and Cal agreed to take them to the city of Albacete, where the brigades were being assembled, before determining what to do himself. Vince, funded by the last of Monty Redfern’s money, would see the others home.
Yet detaching the returnees was not easy; their departure was fought tooth and nail by Manfred Drecker, who maintained that no one had the right to desert the cause and anyone who even implied such a thing deserved to be shot; Laporta backed the athletes and took pleasure in doing so.
The antipathy between the men, political and personal, had not improved on the move into Aragon. Laporta took pleasure in pointing out what the Olympians had achieved, as opposed to Drecker’s communist cadres, which led to a blazing row in which accusations of backsliding, cowardice and chicanery were liberally thrown about.
The other anarchist leaders backed Laporta, as did the Trotskyists of the POUM, leaving Drecker isolated and fuming, the clinching argument being that they had joined with Laporta’s column, so any decision on their future was his to make. Cal backed that up; he was more concerned with the outcome than any claim of rights but he knew, from the looks thrown his way, that as far as Manfred Drecker was concerned he had joined the ranks of his enemies.
The day the main party left for Barcelona was a sad one; even prior to fighting, these lads had bonded together merely through their political outlook and shared stories. Yet combat, even the limited amount they had experienced, cemented that even more, while they had a fully justified pride in what they had achieved. It was handshakes and clasping all round, with many not afraid to show a tear as they clambered into the trucks that would take them to the docks and a ship to Marseilles. For Vince and Cal Jardine, this was just one more parting in a life of many.
‘See you in London, guv. Maybe we can go out an’ have a drink.’
‘Only if you promise not to belt anyone.’
Vince threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’ve mellowed.’
That got a disbelieving look; the last time Cal had taken Vince out, the mistake had been to take him first to a pub in Chelsea full of what Vince called ‘chinless wonders’, then to a late-night drinking club in Soho much frequented by what his one-time sergeant described to the police as ‘toffee-nosed ponces and poufs’. Cal was an amiable drunk, Vince a bellicose one, so the night had ended with a brawl, a visit to the cells and a fine from a morning magistrate.
Vince nodded towards Florencia, saying her own goodbyes. ‘How special is that one?’
‘Good question.’
‘You might have trouble getting away.’
‘I might not want to, Vince.’
The tone of the response was not jocular, the indication that his old friend was risking overstepping the mark obvious, but Vince had something to say and, typical of the man, he was going to say it regardless.
‘I wouldn’t hitch myself to this lot if I were you.’ He was not talking about Florencia, but the Barcelona militia. ‘The way they are now, they’re on a hiding to nothing and if our lot and the Frogs don’t help I can’t see how they can win.’
‘It’s early days. It might pan out.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Vince replied as the first of the truck engines began to throb into life. ‘I’d hate to have to come back and rescue you.’
‘Take care, Vince,’ Cal said, hand held out to be grasped and shaken. ‘And don’t forget to send those trucks back. I’m stuck here with the rest of the lads until you do.’
‘Give you a chance to learn some more Spanish.’
‘Hasta la vista, compadre.’